Volunteered
by The Abbot of Beregost
Summary: Starlancer fic. While not technically an RPG, there is no miscellany games section. Focuses on a recruit during the first few days of the war.


**Volunteered**

I never forgot my first mission. I was eighteen back then. I had all kinds of crazy ideas in my head, and I guess I didn't know better. I had this delusion that I could join up with the Alliance, become a starfighting ace; maybe get a commendation or something. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had to get off my drunken dad's freighter. He had stopped beating me around sixteen, when he figured out that I could whup his ass. So, when we reached Europa and heard about the Coalition's sudden attack, I just walked over to the nearest recruiting station and signed up.

They desperately needed pilots back then, so since I knew my way around space, they skipped me past most of the training. I flew a Naginta light fighter for about a month before they assigned me to the 45th Volunteer, staging off of the ANS Reliant. The 45th was made up of fresh amateurs, most of them my age. There were a few older men, and two women, but ten of the sixteen of us were men younger than 24. Within three days of arriving at Triton to transfer onboard, we were out on a foray.

The Reliant was to ambush a strike force that was coming to clean up what was left of the First Fleet. The day we got on board, we were met by our leader, Second Lieutenant Kaplan. I remember what happened when he called us into the briefing room before our first flight. He stood at the podium, chomping down on a cigar as we sat, almost sweating through our flight suits. He glared down before announcing, "Fresh meat for the grinder, eh? Okay kids, let's get this over with. Welcome to the 45th Volunteer Fighter Squadron. Here's the deal- we're going to provide cover for the heavies while they blow shit up. Remember- shoot the bad guys, keep moving, and keep in contact. Got it? Good. Good luck, you're going to need it."

With that little sermon, the thirty-something officer walked out of the room. We all stood, helmets under our arms, and looked around. Shrugging, we made our way to the lounge. I sat down with a few of the older guys. I guess I looked out of place with all my gear on, because the conversation stopped, and they stared at me for a few seconds before one asked, "What's you're name, wetnose?

"John."

"We go by callsigns here. That's Trigger, he's Frenchy, and I'm Iceman."

"Oh."

"Why you have all that gear on?"

"Gotta be ready, in case they call a scramble. I just left briefing."

The three of them laughed aloud. "Calm down, kid. I'd figure you'd want a few more moments of life." I just looked at him quizzically. They sobered up pretty quick after that one. "Do you even know what you signed up for, greenhorn?" I shook my head.

"Volunteer units don't usually last outside of a week. Kaplan, he's the exception to the rule. His entire flight got taken out on the first mission, except him and his copilot. That was only because his unit was supported by the Pumas. He's gone through about four wings worth of recruits, no survivors. Last week, the Second and 39th Volunteer were wiped out. The 16th was amalgamated. That leaves three units left, out of forty-five."

"Christ."

"Like I said, wetnose, get out of that heavy junk and have a few drinks. I shouldn't be getting to know you, but what the hell."

Instead, I stood up, numb. My heart was in my throat. Average of eighteen volunteers per unit, times forty two units wiped out… and these were people as good as or better than me. I just sort of walked away, on autopilot. The others just shrugged. The adventure in my little escapade was gone. Instead, I just had this dread, weighting me down. I thought I was going to die as soon as I got into the cockpit. Kaplan only survived because the best of the best, the Puma squadron, had been with him. He was lucky. We were going out alone, to try to make sure the ship didn't take too much heat from the fighters.

I thought they would tear us apart piecemeal.

Halfway to my quarters, the lights began to flash, and the ship rocked. Klaxons wailed through the dimly lit corridors, and I jumped reflexively. My heart went from my throat to the soles of my boots in a second. My stomach felt like I had drunk a quart of ice water as I realized what the siren meant. Scramble.

I threw on my helmet and rushed as fast as I could will myself to go. The adrenaline was surging through my system now, and I couldn't stop myself. I reached the launch bay, and began to head towards my poor, lonely Naginta. Our fighters looked so different from every other one in the hangar – the line units' craft had been painted, each in an individual color scheme by unit, with callsigns and kill tallies on the sides. Ours were plain, bare metal fresh from the factory floor. It set us apart- we weren't expected to live long enough to warrant the effort for a paintjob, so we didn't get one. We got the fighters easiest to mass produce, a pat on the back, and flew with a wing and a prayer.

As my comrades passed me by, they slapped my helmet for good luck. I was the only deep spacer of the crowd, so it sort of became tradition. AS far as the other volunteers were concerned, I was the veteran of the squadron. We each got into our seats, and got ready.

We jetted out into the black, four ships at a time. After a quick roll call, the fight began in earnest. Two wings of Azans and one of Basilisks were sighted with a carrier swooping it. ETA was two minutes. "Arm us up!" I called halfheartedly back to my copilot, Moose. Lights flashed on the dashboard, and Kaplan gave the order to engage. We barely had time to react before they were on top of us.

Ducky was the first to go. She died screaming as the first of the Azans caught her peeling away. I heard it across the comm. Before I knew it, there was flak bursting all around me, and I ducked and veered. One of the Coalition pilots opened a channel, taunting the entire squadron. Finally, I recovered my senses. I went after the bastard, hosing down his hear shields and making them flare green against the darkness. I launched a bandit missile, but it went wide. The Azan limped off back to its carrier, while the fight continued.

Martinez went next. Then Smith. After him, D'Anvernon. Finally, it was just me and Moose and Kaplan left from the 45th. Between us, we only tagged four fighters for our six losses. The fear had left me, I suppose. I had just watched twelve men and women die. It was only a matter of time before I ended up exploding like Smith, or managing to eject like Gunter - the poor bastard. He ejected only to end up pasted across the windshield of one of the Basilisks. I sort of resolved to sell myself dearly. I pelted another Azan before plowing half my Screamers into it. That was my last kill of the day.

Before I knew what was happening, one of the Azans was behind me. Most of my rear shields were gone in under ten seconds. I desperately ducked and dodged, using the Reliant as cover. Then I was spinning out of control, caught in the EMP field of a Havoc. Moose's control panel exploded, and he cried out in pain. As I tried to turn around and see if he was okay, something dripped from above…blood. It spattered on my helmet. I faced forwards, grit my teeth, and tried to regain control. I damn well wasn't going to die today. Not by spinning out of control into the Reliant, at any rate.

I tried every trick I knew, and finally managed to veer away a mere dozen meters from the ship. Too late. The Azan was bearing down on me headlong, guns blazing. I inhaled once, accepting the fact that in a few seconds, I'd end up the same was as Smith and the rest. I sighed a little, and took my hands off the throttle. It was over.

Suddenly, a trio of Predators screamed out from above, reducing the Azan to shrapnel in seconds. The comm crackled to life.

"Figured you could use some help, Jack of Spades."

"Jack of… appreciate it, Iceman. Now, let's give these bastards hell!"

"Five by five, Spades."

I gunned the throttle, shooting underneath the passing Predators. Looking up, I saw one very battered carrier jump out. We had done it. I would honor the fallen later, but in that one moment, I was so proud of myself. I had survived, and as my limping, shredded fighter was escorted in, I realized that this was the first of many battles. We went on to assault the strike force and obliterate it. I was there, but me and Kaplan flew with Iceman's squadron that day. The 45th Volunteers got new recruits, lost new recruits. Eventually, we stopped losing men and started earning accolades.

I never forgot my first mission.


End file.
